Slow Burn
by RicepaperDoll
Summary: Saeki Takaomi encounters a grown up Kurosaki Mafuyu at a high school reunion ten years after graduation. When they finally meet to talk to each other, it happens like it was always meant to happen. — Post-series; AU future-fic. One-shot.


**Title: **Slow Burn  
**Author: **RicepaperDoll (teaspeak at LJ)  
**Series: **_Oresama Teacher_  
**Pairing:** Takaomi/Mafuyu.  
**Rating:** M.  
**Warnings:** Profanity, drama, mature themes and images, sexual content, and flangst.

**Disclaimer: **_Oresama Teacher_ is not mine.

**Summary:** Saeki Takaomi encounters a grown up Kurosaki Mafuyu at a high school reunion ten years after graduation. When they finally meet to talk to each other, it happens like it was always meant to happen.

**Note:** Post-series; AU future-fic. One-shot. A creative study exploring dynamics between characters.

* * *

**_Slow Burn_**

* * *

The first time he sees her during the ten-year high school reunion in September, he really can't believe it's her.

She's grown up now. And while he's an educator, a high school chairman in his mid-thirties, still young, it is _she_ who is in the prime of her life, ready for the picking, the taking. She's fresh and bright like a daisy, still with that ruddy charm about her, all slender with her legs, and with her petite frame. There was always something about her perennial innocence that drove him wild, but now, it seems almost sinful to even think about touching her. And her loyalty to him. _Oh_, her loyalty to him. She always made him feel like a king. _The _king, to be exact. But she'll never know that.

After all, it's been years since he's last seen her.

She meets his eyes across the auditorium floor, in a feminine light pink dress that surprisingly suits her, cut and tailored, with a hem right above her knees. As she walks, the hem of her dress licks at the back of her thighs, beckoning him unassumingly when she moves. With her thin frame, she appears sinewy instead of gangly, elegant instead of awkward. She smiles in a way that makes him want to forget himself, and her brown hair is as short as ever, still framing her face in that girlish way. The strands tickle her rosy cheeks and he wants to twirl the chestnut locks in his fingers. She is beautiful, and he wants her.

But it's impossible.

Everything about this is wrong. The feelings, the atmosphere, the circumstance.

He was her teacher, her mentor, her idol, in more ways than one. She was his student, his childhood friend, the little girl he taught how to fight. There is a seven year difference between them.

Though, when they finally meet to talk to each other, it happens like it was always meant to happen.

After a few hours of waltzing around each other, saying hello to contemporaries, they finally exchange greetings. They stand outside to get some fresh air on the balcony with wine glasses in hand.

The two of them talk mostly about trivial things_—_about their friends and relatives, coworkers and acquaintances. When she still addresses him familiarly, as if they hadn't been separated for years, he swears that he's fallen in love with her all over again. And when she turns to him with expressive eyes and a bright smile, he can't help himself. In a bold move of brashness and stupidity, he reaches over to run a hand through her hair.

For a fleeting second, she looks afraid and flustered like she did when she was a teenager, but maturity clouds over her face like a mask. Her eyes light up comprehendingly, and that's when he_ knows_: she desires him_ just as much_. The spark is lit, the match struck_—_smouldering, ready, waiting to burn. Then, like she always does, she surprises him with her quick ability to learn: it only takes a moment before she smiles a fraction with half-lidded eyes, and she closes the gap between them.

The kiss they share is like a punch to the face.

It hits him hard like a solid right hook and he loses it. They stumble haphazardly as he holds her close against his body, their lips crushed together in a bout of passion. The wine glasses fall to the floor forgotten, shattering into millions of pieces across the balcony deck. Before he realizes it, he's pressing her into the side of the wall near a secluded area with her hands held above her head. Her wrists bruise against the cool red brick. He tries to restrain himself.

He can't.

He feels like a young teenage boy once more, experiencing his first time all over again, his lips tasting the skin of her neck, biting her collarbone harshly, while his hands roam over her curves greedily. Eventually, his fingers find the folds of her dress and the inside of her core, and she growls like an untamable cat. She's scorching hot against him, leaking over his palm like melting wax, and he wastes no time. He takes her in a way that is almost unyielding, harsh and desperate. In all of the other times he's done it with previous partners, he was always a surprisingly considerate lover, the one who loved slowly and steadily to keep the ladies coming...

But no.

Not with her. Not with this girl—this woman—the _only_ woman that he wants to become his and his alone...

Their union is like a fight with no holds barred; free, relentless and liberating. He's only felt this type of freedom once or twice before, and that was when he was a young delinquent, with his _nakama_ calling him 'Leader,' standing beside him as they took out a gang more than ten times the size of their own.

The sensation is simply overwhelming. He doesn't hold back as he thrusts into her silently, angled hips and all, in the free, cool evening air. He is shocked when she meets him energetically, stroke for stroke. The only sounds she makes are small gasps against his ear, and a low sensual moan he never thought was possible to come from her. He holds back his own gasp, his lips forming her name as she clenches around him, unyielding like a vice, consuming him completely.

She fucks like she fights. It's then that he realizes that she's the _only_ one who could handle him this way.

In a few minutes, it's pretty much over despite his rather legendary stamina, since the idea of being inside her is too much to bear. They slump against the wall, a mangled heap of limbs, sweat and wide eyes. His dress shirt, stretched taut against his muscles, is wrinkled and missing a few buttons, while there is a small rent in the slip of her rose-colored dress, the skirt pushed up to her waist.

He watches in awe as she braces herself against the cold hard brick, panting and heaving with heavy-lidded eyes and swollen lips. He looks down. It's then that he notices in the aftermath the thin trickle of blood making its way down her leg, small red drops dotting the floor.

The veil of euphoria lifts itself, and harsh reality hits him: he has done something that he could never forgive himself for. He was supposed to be an older brother to her. And instead, he ruined her for every other boy who could have been hers. He's undeniably furious with himself.

"Mafuyu. I—" he begins in a hushed voice, and in an instant, he realizes he can't speak because he has no excuse.

He has always loved her selfishly without even realizing it, and even if he didn't want to, he couldn't have helped it. He avoids her gaze with downcast eyes and a grave face, holding her up by the arms, as if she was the remnants of a doll that lay broken on the floor. He blinks, and is surprised to find his eyelashes are damp.

A moment later, a soft but strong hand finds his face, cupping his cheek with long, sturdy fingers. He looks up.

"Takaomi-kun. Don't patronize me. I'm not a child," she says to him bluntly, with no decorum. She looks at him hard, with a furrowed brow and a stubborn stare that he cannot refuse.

When he cannot do anything but stare back at her wordlessly, she sighs heavily through the nose, meeting his gaze resolutely. When she sees the uncertain look he gives her, her eyes soften.

"You don't understand, idiot. I've always wanted it to be you." Her lips are pressed into a thin line. She means it.

And that's when she moves in and presses her lips against his in a way he'd never expect; so light and gentle, but unhesitating and confident, unlike any kiss he's ever received in his life. It takes away his breath that he can only do so much as to savor it.

For the first time in his life, he feels vulnerable and afraid. Not that he'd ever admit it. Not to anyone. _Especially_ not to her.

But regardless of whether or not he tells her, she knows how he feels anyway, because she embraces him back as he holds onto her for dear life. It's as if her presence alone is the only thing that can keep him from losing touch with reality. He buries his head into her shoulder, taking in her clean scent.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm so, so sorry," he whispers almost inaudibly, without understanding why.

"Shut up," she says. He pulls away to look down at her surprised as she beams in her cheeky, innocent way. Her eyes shine brilliantly. Her smile widens. "Don't ever apologize for loving me, Takaomi-kun. I've been waiting for this. It took you long enough."

And in the simple way that he finds so infuriating, she accepts him patiently and unconditionally, and holds him so tenderly in a way that he finds it impossible to ever want to let her go. So, the most he can do is just take her in his arms in return, assuming his role as her protector, her guardian, with his lips upon her forehead, mouthing the words, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

She laughs brightly in response, her arms tightening around him. It's enough to take them back to where they left off, years ago.

* * *

**_Owari_**

* * *

**A/N.**

Every once in a while, I get into a weird mood and something like this comes out of me, and I never know where it comes from. That said, it shocks me to have written something as unexpected and odd as this for a series as lighthearted and comedic as _Oresama Teacher_.

Still, there's something about Takaomi and Mafuyu's dynamic that makes their pairing extremely foreboding and dangerous (and quite _Lolita_-esque, to be honest). The fact that their potential for romance is based on a mentor-student relationship makes it appealing, albeit scandalous, and it makes me wonder if the reason why the romance between them is so slow is because of the hang ups Takaomi must feel about his mentorship role to Mafuyu. Anyway, here's for something different. I wanted to take a break and write in a different tone from my other _Oresama Teacher_ story, so this is what happened.

Hope you enjoyed, and tell me what you think.

**_Reviews, constructive criticism and suggestions are appreciated always!_** :D**  
**


End file.
